A Second Riddle
by dancy
Summary: Harry is called on to return to the wizard world when a new threat arises.
1. Harry goes Postal

The characters are completely unowned by me, as well as the situations that you actually recognize. Be warned that this is a future fic (post Voldemort), and will be a slash fic (Harry/Draco).

A Second Riddle 

**Chapter 1**

"I am convinced now that the desert has no heart,

 that it presents a riddle which has no answer, 

and that the riddle itself is an illusion created

 by some limitation or exaggeration

 of the displaced human consciousness."

-Edward Abbey, _Desert Solitaire_

It started in San Diego, California. 

The factory warehouse was as damp and dirty as he had expected. For some reason, the places seemed to attract dust and dirt, to wallow in grime and wet mud, combining into a lethal combination of utter filth that made even him wince. He tugged the 'FBI' jacket on over his bulletproof vest, and under its weight, lamented the fact that he could not just do a spell to repel the projectiles from himself. He was just pulling a blue baseball cap over his head when he heard the crackle of his walkie-talkie, and the supervising agent's voice come through the set.

"Agent Potter, this is Agent Devereaux."

Harry grew a wane smile as the slight southern twang registered even through the headset. "I'm here, John."

"You notice anything a little bit unusual about this case?"

"You mean the fact that no one's been in or out of the building in the last hour?"

"Yeah."

Harry winced, and squashed the urge to say that he hadn't noticed anything. "Yeah, I noticed."

There was a pause and a slight bit of static filled the silence outside the warehouse.

"Harry, meet me at the North door. We're going in alone."

_  _  _  _

The inside of the factory was almost worse than the outside. It was dark, surprisingly cramped with machinery that had not been used in decades, most of which probably no longer worked. It felt oddly like stepping into the stereotypical action movie, and it made the hair on the back of Harry's neck rise. For a split second, he missed the intimate connection he had had with the villains in his past. He missed having his scar hurt whenever and wherever danger was present. It was an early detection system that he particularly missed.

Still, in a pinch he supposed the hairs on the back of his neck were good enough. It made him more alert, more expecting. The only difference is that he had no real clue what to expect. John was to his left, about five feet on the other side, leaning against a makeshift wall that was composed out of cardboard boxes and sheet metal. It had only taken them a few minutes to figure out that this particular warehouse was indeed the headquarters of the group they were seeking.

The group was a particularly nasty one, in Harry's opinion. It was a group of practical but unaffiliated skinheads, nearly Neo-Nazi, if only they had been more organized and not quite so defiant of political authority. If they had been in England, they would probably have been labeled as such anyway. They had waged a war on every minority Harry could think of, save the wizards. He figured that was merely because they didn't know of their existence. Harry hoped it wasn't because they were wizards.

Of course, that would have been just what Harry needed at this point in his life. The responsibility of explaining to his superiors exactly why he was able to cast a counter-curse against the inexplicable spells a militant group had used as their weapon. Harry guessed it was only time before he walked into a situation like that. He was the great Harry Potter, after all. He drew in all sorts of trouble like a twisted magnet.

"_Harry_!"

John's sharp whisper pulled him out of all his self-conjecture, back to the present. His eyes went first to his boss, before following his look and his gesture to the scene before them. The rows of boxes up until this point had been arranged so that they formed a wide but inescapable hallway; now they opened out into a large meeting room, almost grand in its scale. There was a large rectangular table, obviously their meeting spot, and on the side closest to the entrance were desks set up with telephones and computers. It looked, generally, like a political campaign office, only the boards that had been hung up on the faux walls were marked with stars on the maps of places where the group's crimes had occurred, and had several other locations circled. Places where hits were obviously planned.

The most surprising thing, however, was the condition of the members of the hate group. Every one of them was sprawled out in their chairs, on the floor, or over the table. They were completely and totally lifeless. Suspended in the air near the ceiling of the warehouse was a mark – not the Dark Mark, but to Harry's mind it was the same general thing, only possibly more shy because it was inside the building. Three vertical lines arranged in a triangular formation, two on the bottom and one on top, and in reality they weren't even just plain lines, they were crossed at the top and bottom like I-beams. Anywhere else, and Harry would have thought nothing of it, but in this context it made his stomach hurt, even as he turned to look at Devereaux.

"Well, I suppose this makes it more interesting for us." 

_ _ _ _

Harry got home to his apartment well after midnight. He wasn't surprised by that, on his harder cases, he would often be at the office into the next day. It was one of the reasons he had so easily adjusted back to life in the muggle world – he rarely had to dwell on it. 

He thumbed through the mail; it was always just bills or junk mail. His hand paused on a Ticket Master envelope, which he only recognized because he had attended a muggle concert earlier in the year, and had received the same envelope then. He ripped the envelope down the side, opening it and pulling out a general admission ticket and backstage pass to a Screaming Ferrets concert. He bit his lip, and set it off to the side. He would think about that later.

He had been going to get himself some water in the kitchen when he looked out the back window, onto the balcony of the apartment, and he saw her. Hedwig, her feathers as glistening and white as ever, a message tied to her leg, and a slight glare in her eyes, directed towards him. He went to the sliding glass door, and let her in.

"I suppose you're angry because I wasn't here to let you in." She settled on one of his kitchen bar stools, still staring him down in the way she had perfected over the years since he had last seen her. "I'm sorry, I had work. At any rate, it's great to see you again."

The glare softened, but just a bit, and Harry guessed that that was as well as he would manage tonight. He walked towards her, holding his hand out, and she accepted, landing gracefully, and allowing him to untie the message from her leg. He petted behind her ears. "Just let me see about this, and I'll see what food I can find you out of my fridge." Hedwig looked a little nonplussed. "Icebox, Hedwig."

The first letter was from Ron.

_Harry-_

_Sorry that it's been such awhile since I last wrote. Things have been getting hectic here again, but I'll leave that explanation up to Albus._

_I suppose all I can really say here is that we miss you, Harry. When you left after the defeat of You-Know-Who (I still hate writing the actual name) we all thought that it was fine, that you would come back after a certain number of years. It's been ten years, and you still haven't returned. We need you to come back now, Harry._

_That aside, Hermione and I are doing quite well, aside from the recent troubles in the ministry. The Canons are having a remarkable season, as well. Maybe if you visit, we could take in a game or two._

_I'm sorry about the guilt trip, but we need you back, Harry._

_-Ron_

Harry winced, and set that aside for now, going to the second note. It was from Dumbledore.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_I am almost ashamed to be writing this letter. When you defeated Voldemort for good, I, and most of the wizarding community, felt that you had been doing the greatest service to our kind that could ever be rendered, and to be writing you to ask for more somehow seems like a great disservice to the deeds you have already performed. _

_The fact of the matter is, though, that our kind has fallen into a great, unknown trap again. Some menace is starting to threaten revolt, Harry. Groups of muggles are being killed, and while so far they seem to be the scum of the earth, skinheads and the like, there is no telling how long it will be before something more sinister begins to happen._

_On a personal note, both Severus and I have begun to receive threatening letters. While this would not normally scare us, they are signed with the same insignia that is being left above the scenes of each crime. I have inscribed it at the bottom of the letter, so that you may know what to watch for even if you do not join us in this battle._

_I fear that whoever is doing this will only become more extreme, Harry, and with that idea in mind I beg for your help. There is a new Dark Lord rising, and I believe that only those of us who had vanquished the first could manage to stand to the second. Please, consider my offer._

_That being said, I have heard remarkable things about your FBI work from here, Harry. I must admit – I'm quite proud of how well you've made it in the world, even if you barely use any of the things we taught you here. Charms, potions, predictions, and curses have, I would imagine, little use to you when you are rarely in a situation where you can use them legally. _

_Take care of yourself in these times, Harry. I fear that whatever is targeting those of us still around may also seek you out._

_Sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

_P.S. If you do decide to join our cause, see if you can't convince a certain rock star friend of ours to pick up the banner as well. We have been unable to reach him by any method, muggle or otherwise, and while he has no personal connection to this battle, he has proven himself a capable ally in the past, and I feel that one can never have too many of those._

Harry sighed and pinched the skin between his eyes. He knew even before he looked that the mark Dumbledore had described would be the same as the one in the factory today. That meant that whatever force it was, it had spread overseas as well. Hell, it could be everywhere by now. Harry could never ignore a threat like that before, and there was no time to start now. He would phone John in the morning, and call in the vacation time he had coming. John would probably be pissed, but there was little he could do to stop Harry.

As for the other matter… Harry walked back to his mail, picking up the ticket to look at the date and location. The concert was tomorrow, in Phoenix Arizona. Harry winced – it was really typical of the other man to pull a stunt like this. It looked like Harry had a small road trip in store for the morning.


	2. Draco is a punk

I still own nothing! And many thanks go out to those of you who have reviewed thus far.

**Chapter Two**

"Here you can be anything.  
I think that scares you.  
I've been here before but only by myself.  
What giving up gives you and where giving up takes you.  
I've had and I've been.  
Here in center frame, there's only air.  
Just enough space to fit."

-Jimmy Eat World, _Just Watch The Fireworks_

It was everything you would have expected from a punk show. The arena was large; he supposed it was a testament to the newfound success of the band. He sort of missed the small, club-like arenas they used to have to play when they were here. He supposed that it was all progress -- it was all growth.

It was just a few more seconds before he would be at peace again. It was just a few seconds before he would take the only home he really knew anymore. His body was thrumming with excitement. He glanced in the mirror that hung in the restroom that was serving as their dressing room tonight. His hair was perfectly spiked, and he looked even paler than normal in his stage outfit, a black mechanic style shirt with a ferret embroidered on the pocket, and the black cloth pants to match it. His eyebrow piercing glittered in the light, and when he spoke, you could just make out his tongue piercing.

He looked totally punked out.

Just a few more seconds, and he would be home again.

In fact... it was time to go home. He slipped out of the 'dressing room', to the stage. He could hear the crowd milling about. He was only visible to about a third of them, but that was enough to get the entire crowd excited. He picked the first bass up off of the stand, checking the tuning before replacing it, and moving to talk to the rest of his band.

"You wankers just about done over here? I was told we had a show to perform in."

"Aw, man, Mike. It's so cute when he goes all British on us."

Draco smiled at Steven, the third member of their twisted little trio. Mike, who was the drummer, was the stereotypical drummer. Quiet, reflective – he never spoke unless it was to maintain group peace or integrity. That was good though, every band needed an anchor, and Mike was theirs. Draco could hear footsteps behind him; he turned around and noticed one of their roadies, giving him a smile in the low light.

" It's time. Have a good show, guys."

Draco hit the stage with the enthusiasm that had made him famous even in the small time. Their bass guitar man slipped a guitar around his shoulders, going behind to plug it into his amp. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see all the actions around him, people checking mics, people checking amps, people bringing water bottles out onto the stage… It did not matter much -- he was home.

It was time, then. The curtain dropped, and his eyes flew almost immediately to the back or the crowd, searching out a face and eyes that he never expected to be there, but somehow hope would be. The stage was lit in a light blue — easy on the eyes but hard to see through. He really didn't know why he was looking… the person he looked for never showed up.

Then, he saw it – disheveled black hair, glasses, and a scar that he could see even in dim light and far away. They met eyes and held, even as Draco hit the opening chord of one of their hit singles. Draco had come home.

_ _ _ _

Draco knew who the person outside the bus was as soon as he heard the tentative knock. Mike or Steve wouldn't have knocked. Anyone else would have knocked with more confidence. Harry… would be nervous.

"Come in, Harry."

He heard a slight laugh, and then saw Harry start to appear, walking up the stairs to the main quarters of the bus. Draco sat in the front area, at a small table where the band spent a good deal of time – eating, drinking, joking about all different aspects of their lives. Draco gestured to the bench opposite him, and Harry walked over and sat down.

It was an uneasy, awkward moment, and it made Draco itch, he felt like he was still covered in the grime and sweat from the stage, despite his recent shower. He took the silence as what it was, though, and used the slight respite to take in Harry's appearance. Harry was, as always, unflappable. He looked completely untouched by the pit, as only he could have been. Draco had never felt that pristine in his life.

"So what do I owe this honor to? The Boy who Lived finally deciding to grace the noble presence of The Screaming Ferrets?"

It had just a touch of sarcasm to it – Draco couldn't help it. He had tried and tried to get this man to appear at one of their shows, to no luck, and now suddenly here he was. There had to be an ulterior motive. Harry winced at his words, though, and Draco softened his approach.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"No." Harry's voice was slightly cold, and Draco got out of his seat despite his words, pulling a Smirnoff Ice from the fridge with a small smile at Harry's questioning look.

"I hate the taste of beer. It gets me made fun of a fuck of a lot, but I generally don't fucking care." Draco smirked, just a little now, pride appearing in his voice. "I hold my liquor better than the whole lot of them, anyway."

"I suppose it helps to have something to be proud of."

Harry probably hadn't meant to sound as utterly demeaning as he had, but Draco took it as such despite that. "We're rather fucking proud of the music, too. While I know you probably despise the idea that I haven't done a bloody fucking spell to alter the appeal of it and still I fucking succeed, I rather take pride in the fact that despite all that's been said and done at the end of the day I rake in more cash than the bloody Boy who Lived."

"By playing a song that's named for him."  Harry gave a small smirk himself, and stole Draco's Smirnoff to take a small swig. "And by dyeing your hair, which I might add is really a lovely shade of blue right now."

Draco couldn't help it – he smiled. "Thanks, Potter. I was going to stick with the whole so-blue-it's-black idea, but I decided that teal might be a lovely change of pace." Draco stole his 'malt flavored beverage' back, and took a sip before he spoke, more earnestly than before. "Seriously, Harry. What's going on?"

"Albus and Ron wrote me. It seems there's a bit of trouble starting up."

_ _ _ _

It was a place unlike any the young man had been before. The darkness, the cold seemed to cling to him like a second skin, as if the entire place had been enchanted to give an air of disapproval. Considering where he was, that was quite possibly the case. His footsteps did not ring in the halls, despite the grandiose scale of the hall he was walking in, despite the tall ceilings and lack of curtains or carpeting to dull the sound. His steps sounded dead, dull and muted.

He finally came to the large door at the end of the hall. It was made of ebony and some other dark wood that he couldn't identify. Still, he reached out a hand and started to knock, the door floated open before he could make contact.

"Come in, Gregory."

He stepped forward, entering the office with more fear and trepidation than he would dare admit to. He didn't have very far to go, just a step or so and he stood in front of the man who had spoken. The office, however, was its own variety of fear. It was always slightly muggy inside – a completely opposite of the cold that existed everywhere else in the old mansion. The office felt like a jungle – hot, sticky. It felt like the primordial bowels of the earth, born anew. He felt like an amphibian, the sticky filth clinging to him like he was covered in mucus. He wondered how the small man he was standing in front of could stand it, but he managed and thrived somehow.

"Did you do what I asked of you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, then. The plan is falling into place.

Gregory Goyle could do little more than shiver, despite the temperature of the room.

_ _ _ _ 

Draco hated driving. The road was long and tedious, and it was full of truly stupid muggles, all of whom seemed to have a death wish. Draco wished he could help some of them fulfill that.

The fact of it was, however – he had no choice. It was either drive himself to his house in the upper suburbs of Phoenix, or use some form of public transportation. He refused to ride in any bus without beds, and he had had a few too many poor experiences with cabs and limos to consider either of those a viable option.

So he drove, and he drove with style. His current car was a black jeep, fabric topped, which he had left off today. It was a nice day in Arizona – somewhat hot, but not enough that it was going to bother him too much.

He was only a couple blocks from his house. 

He turned the corner, his eyes seeking his upper-middle class house with anticipation. He wanted to take a shower and climb into bed. Possibly for a good month or so. Touring wore him down, and his latest encounter with the Boy Who Kept On Living left something to be desired. He should have known Harry wouldn't have come by without a separate reason. All he wanted was to relax, and forget, not get himself dragged into another long, emotionally taxing war against all the dark and evil forces known to wizard kind.

When he caught sight of the house, somehow he knew he wouldn't have a choice in the matter.

"Oh, fuck."

Draco slammed his car into reverse, his hands shaking as he used one of his neighbors' driveways to turn the jeep around. Over his house, there hung a symbol in a grey cloud of dust. He knew without looking that there would be figures looming around the building. He knew without looking that the symbol in the air would match the one on the slip of paper Harry handed him.

Now if only he could figure out where to go from here.


End file.
